Carrion Flame Greatsword of Corruption

The Carrion Flame Greatsword of Corruption gleams with a warped, living shine—a blade of deep obsidian steel that drinks color from the air. Its length carries the weight of a charge and along the spine run veins of ember-orange glow that pulse like coals in a dying hearth. The crossguard is pale bone, ribs curling into a hollow crescent, while the grip is wrapped in weathered leather, dark with rain and sweat. Around the hilt a circle of copper catches light and smolders faintly, as if a secret sun tilts just beneath the surface. When you swing, the air seems to hiss with heat, and a faint scent of burnt sage lingers, as if the weapon keeps watch over the dead. Locals tell a dozen stories about its birth. Some say the blade cooled in carrion fire, a furnace fed by the last sighs of fallen heroes, and that the flames remember every life they touch. Others claim it was traded from a caravan of necromancers, a relic bartered for oaths and a promise to keep the dead fed. What remains consistent is the sense that the greatsword is not merely forged steel but a conduit: carry it, and a dark warmth crawls up your arm, feeding a hunger that guards you from fear as long as you beware its price. The pigment of the flame shifts from orange to blue at the edge, an omen to enemies and a warning to you: this weapon does not forget. In battle the Carrion Flame Greatsword of Corruption feels like a story you can wear in your hands. Its reach lets you carve openings in a marching line, its weight heavy with the memory of impact. When swung in broad arcs, it hums with a corruptive pulse that tilts the battlefield by inches—enemies stumble as if blinded, and allies sense a shield of warmth around them that steadies their breath. Players describe a rhythm: a heavy strike to break a line, a follow-up that exposes weakness, and a momentary aura that licks outward, tainting foes with lingering embers while you heal from the flame’s memory. It becomes a character in a party’s tale, turning skirmishes into chapters in a larger epic. Prices drift in the markets, and traders speak softly of risk and reward. I watched a handful of listings shuffle on Saddlebag Exchange, where the going price hovers in a shifting shadow of gold, rising with scarcity and falling as new stock appears. One seller claimed the blade included a scavenger’s sheath and a promise of steady heat in cold nights, a perk that skews desire just enough to keep wheels turning. The Carrion Flame is not only steel and spell; it is a rumor you wear, a rumor that spits sparks when it meets steel and old stories collide. In the end, the blade travels as much as its bearer does, through taverns and ruins, out among caravans and market squares, carrying the memory of a flame that refuses to die.